teenmentalhealth

Insignificance

“I remember things going dark.

Eventually all I could hear was my heart beat.

Behind my eyes would turn spotted, then red……

And eventually things would go dark.

Sometimes I’d feel as if I started to slip away.

And then they would come running in and find me.”

“How was school today sweetie? Did it go ok? How was it seeing everyone again?”

“Ummmmm. Not great.”

That wasn’t the answer I was hoping for. We have waited a very long time for this day to come. The first day of school. The first day back. The first day going forward. She’s in a new school now. We decided the old one wasn’t a place we wanted to go back to, with all the stressful memories. Although we say that someday we’ll look back, and some of the stories will seem humorous, they are all very deep, and still very raw. Much more raw than I thought.

I was hoping for a great story. She was terribly excited. We have private transportation right now, as the stress of being on a cheese wagon loaded with K-12 kids is overwhelming on any given day. Our school division has been kind enough to provide secure door to door transportation so there are no worries. She was dressed beautifully, with a flowery baby-doll top and leggings, softly colored candy floss hair, and her signature dark pink lipstick. The driver told me she was shaking a little, and talking tremendously fast. She hesitated a little, and then went in to face the day. Everything was planned and charted out, with friends texting her directions to her first classes.

The thing is, one whole year has passed, with at least a half year before that one missed. Time goes by whether you are present or not, and fitting back in isn’t so easy. Add some disassociation to that and you have a feeling of being very alone. It’s amazing how you can walk in to an environment of a lot of people, and feel more alone then when you’re actually by yourself. It doesn’t seem possible, but it’s very true. Social anxiety is just that – being alone in the midst of the craziness, and not knowing really how to change it. I would describe it as an out of body experience, inside of your body. Feeling like you are absolutely unimportant, and nothing.

“I cried today.”

“Why sweetie? Why did you cry? Were you alone?”

“No, I was with my teacher. I just feel insignificant. And uncomfortable. And….overwhelmed.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that this is so hard. I’m sure it will get better. You’ll get back in to it.”

“The thing is, I don’t want to get “back in to it”. I don’t want to fit in and be a part of the way things used to be. I don’t want things to be the way they used to be. I’m not that person anymore. I don’t want the same nick name. I’m not anorexic anymore. I don’t want to sit and be part of the drama, talk about who did what to who, and how much of a witch that other girl is. I want to love people, and talk about wonderful things. I want to sit with bare feet, eat raw corn and not be made fun of. I want to stand in the mud and feel the earth in my toes and feel the rain on my face. I want to talk about life and how amazing things are. I’m not sick anymore. As a matter of fact, I’m the least sick person I know. I just want to show love to people.”

I sat and looked at her for a moment. I know how she feels. We have come so far and have changed so much. I don’t want her to be part of that world either. She isn’t suicidal anymore – and those days may haunt her but they do not define who she is. She has turned in to this amazingly confident, sensitive, feeling, empath – but suffers with anxiety, stress, OCD, PTSD, unspecified eating disorders and a few other unmentionable things that circle above her head, threatening to land on her shoulder and speak fear quietly into her ear. She requires support still, in very significant ways, but she has fought very hard, and grown up perhaps a bit too quickly.

Her smile will light up a room. She sings with unabandon in the shower, in her room, to the radio, and just about anywhere we go. She plays in the sand, walks barefoot most of the time, plays in the rain and dances as she bounds up and down the stairs. Her eyes twinkle while she tells corny jokes, and she has taken a strange pleasure in discovering great new lipstick colors. Her clothes are usually soft and flowy, sprayed with colorful flowers and the odd piece of lace or ruffle. At the end of the day she flops down on the couch talking about her many plans to travel the world her VW or PT Cruiser – she can’t decide. She is definitely not the girl she used to be.

“I don’t know what to say doll. I wish I could tell you it will be easy, just give it time and things will be better. Instead, how about this. Just give it some time – things will be different. You’ll find your way, whatever that is. Thank you for telling me you cried. Thank you for having the courage to share with me how you’re really feeling, because one of my fears is thinking it’s all just ok when it’s really not. You and I have come a very long way. Let’s make it our goal just to love the people around us, and if they don’t accept that, well, we can always move on. There’s always someone who needs some love.”

September 4, 2015 2

Reflections

It was almost a year ago, that I went shopping with my daughter for school clothes. I will never forget that day. I had my arms full of pants, jeans, tops and all sorts of fun things, but no matter what we picked, we just couldn’t find a size that fit. Size 5? Nope – too big. Perhaps a 3 would work. Still too big. Then I went for the 2, then the 1, then really – a zero? Yes – we were there – at a 0 and even 00, and when I looked at how the clothes were hanging I was shocked. In my head I gasped, and realized we had a problem.

Where are things now? Time for a update.

Today, we went shopping for school clothes. It’s about a 30 minute drive to the mall we wanted to shop at. My daughter chatted along the way about how she found her journal from a year ago, and was shocked at how much she’s changed. She said she found her entries to be dark, grey and very depressing. She talked about how now things seem bright, and that life is great – for the most part anyways. We spoke about how far she’s really come, and headed straight for the mall.

We walked around, looking at different things – lipstick, lingerie, tshirts and were in search of the perfect pants. We ended up going in to the very same store we shopped at last year. It was a little dejavu, and I must say I had to breathe pretty deeply and focus on now – not then. We founds lots of wonderful things to try on, and off to the dressing room she went. This time, not a size 0. We discussed how hard it was to find clothes, and although she’s probably only a size 1 now (maybe a 2 if we went for loose), but at least we’re not at 00. We were able to talk about self image, potential triggers, and what makes her feel beautiful now. It was refreshing to see her laugh, twirl and primp herself in front of the mirror. There was one point where I made the mental note that 0 is very close, and I would have to be watching very closely, but her mood was wonderful. The marks from all the self harm were there, but really – neither of us could really see them anymore.

All the shopping was making me ready for lunch, but she just wanted to keep on. Next – a stop for the perfect new lipstick. There is nothing like a new lipstick. The feel of the cardboard box, the smooth beautiful tube and perfect shape of the color inside. You twist it up and look for a moment, and then try it – and hopefully it’s magic. It was hard to decide, but we managed to settle on 2 new colors for her, and 1 for myself. Lunch? Not yet.

We hit a few more stores, tried things on – primped and preened, and got her fitted properly for a few new items. Lunch? Well, that’s when the conversation began.

“Mom, I’m really struggling. I know I have to eat, but I just can’t handle the food in my mouth.”

“Ok, is there anything that appeals to you at all? Soup? Smoothie? Sushi? Fries? Salad? Anything?”

“No, not really. I know I have to eat. And I will. At least I’ll try, but I feel noxious when I swallow.”

We settled on a small vegetarian tray of sushi. The first few pieces were ok, as long as we kept talking and were distracted. Then I could see her trying not to taste it, as if it hit her tongue she would be sick. She managed to swallow, but by the time she hit the last piece she was holding her nose and gagging.

“You don’t have to eat it all. You made a great effort and got enough down.”

“I’m sorry mom. I’m really trying”

“I know you are. Maybe smaller amounts as we go?”

“My stomach hurts because I know I’m hungry. I hate the pain – I know that’s what it’s from. I just can’t handle the texture of anything. It all feels thick.”

The good news? She’s being honest with me. She’s letting me know upfront that she’s struggling, and even better – letting me try to help. The bad news? She’s struggling and choking back a protein bar with her nose plugged in an effort not to loose weight. She’s in a safe zone now, but danger is a mere 5+ pounds away. Her program knows, she knows, and I know that it’s a struggle she may have the rest of her life, but we just have to be patient and honest. I’m being told to try and find one food she can enjoy, but even a liquid other than water turns her off.

More good news. The rigid, straight back, perfect speech, and demure behaviors are all gone. Now, I have a fun loving, slightly slouched, mostly barefoot dancing girl, that finds joy in brightly colored hair, tie dyed clothing, flowy pants, and singing at the top of her lungs. She walks barefoot in the mud (I tell her not to), and dances in the rain. Her favorite slogan is, “An adventure a day keeps the Dr. away!”.

There is still tough stuff, and we still have some big battles coming that legally I can’t talk about. She has trouble with parts of her family that usually end up in self harm, so visits are kept to a bare minimum. She is going to have to face a class room with kids, and a teacher, and schoolwork, and even home work – all things she hasn’t had for almost 2 years. What will happen when boys start paying attention to her, or girls start making comments about how tiny she is, or tall or colorful, or loud or any of the other things kids say? Her friends either aren’t in her class, or even in her grade. She won’t be able to lay on the floor in class and make toast whenever she wants anymore, and somewhere, I’m going to have to get her a computer and trust her with it. Our school division requires each student have a laptop – something I’m not excited about.

We have fought very hard this year. There have been good days, and not quite as good, but at the end of each and everyone of them, I’m glad and very thankful, that I’ve been given the opportunity to fight.

The toughest part now? Dealing with the demons…………….

August 20, 2015 0

The Walnut

The bowl of nuts every Christmas sits by the fireplace. The nuts are not the kind you get from a little tin with the metal tab that you peel back. The nuts in this bowl are carefully hand picked by my dad, making sure they’re all in tact. There’s a wide assortment of Hazelnuts, Brazil Nuts, Cashews, Filberts and Walnuts, all still in the shell needing to be cracked open. Next to the dish, there’s a small metal nutcracker, with a little metal tool used to dig the small bits out of the nooks and crannies of the shell.

I was really never any good at getting the nut out of the shell with those small little crackers. I didn’t ever get why we couldn’t get the tin, but my dad really enjoyed cracking open those nuts – and he was good at it. I remember watching and thinking, “He doesn’t even get any pieces anywhere. They just pop open for him.”

I remember going in to a store one time and seeing a big huge Nutcracker – the kind with the lever on the back of the head. Seems like a monstrous tool for such a small item, but have you ever tried to crack a nut? If you’re not careful and don’t do it right, it can make a really huge mess, and even break the nutcracker itself. It might seem like a very small problem – crack the nut – get the goodies out of the shell but if it’s not done right you have just more of a mess on your hands. I’m pretty sure at some point my brother tried using a hammer, and I’m sure there’s a story somewhere about a dented table or floor because of it. The point being – a small nut can seem really hard to crack, and the large tools can seem unnecessary, but really might be needed to do it right.

This last week we took another trip to the hospital, not for my daughter this time, but for another family member. It seemed so unnecessary. “Can’t we just talk about this? Tell us what’s up and we’ll help you fix it”, but mental health doesn’t work that way, and I’ve learned our youth don’t trust us and don’t feel safe sharing.

Why don’t they trust us? Why can’t they share? What have our generation, and the ones before us done to loose the trust of youth today? And even more importantly, why are there so many, many hurting, angry, beaten and broken teens?

I don’t have answers to any of these questions. I’m as perplexed as the next person, and watch as lives disappear due to a dark moment intensified by intoxication, or being high, taking away the inhibitions that could be that small little piece keeping them from ending it all. It’s so senseless.

Talk to your children every day, and not from the other room, or while you’re working at something else. Look them in the eye, ask them how life is. Talk about issues like drugs, alcohol and sexuality. Put on your big girl panties and be prepared to calmly answer some tough questions (even when you’re freaking on the inside), and if you don’t have the answers, find a safe place to get them, and then follow up. Who will your child go to when they’re in trouble? Do you know? I’d be willing to guarantee that it won’t be you – at least not at first. Learn to be ok with that, because it is what it is. Just make sure, that they have a “go to” adult to use as a support. A pier is not the right answer. It needs to be someone that has their life at least a little together, and has some life experience.

“Not my kid”. Don’t kid yourself. I said that over and over, and I can’t write about some of the things we’ve been through. Maybe it seems like a huge sledgehammer for a small walnut, but like those hard shells, our teenagers are no different. The tools are there – use them – and don’t be ashamed. At the end of the day, the only thing that matters, is that we have them to hug and hold as long as we possibly can.

As my friends son said to her, “life is a roller coaster mom – lots of twists and turns along the way”. Eventually we’ll get there. Stick together and hang on for all you’re worth.

August 15, 2015 0

Not This Time

It could have happened, many times. There were plans and notes. We went through 5 different attempts, and not one succeeded. There were escalations – but nothing ended in tragedy. I have watched all 3 of my children suffer with depression, go through bullying, battle with poor self image, and yet somehow we have come through on the other side.

Today, a family in our community didn’t come through the other side. For some reason, what ever was going on, was just too much, and an intercession didn’t happen soon enough to help. Why us? How did I get so fortunate? I don’t think there’s an answer.

When we were in the days at the hospital, I remember talking to the Dr.’s and nurses, and asking if anyone ever succeeded at an attempt while there. I was told that twice kids had succeeded. Last week, there was one more success. It breaks my heart to think of what that family must be going through. I hugged my daughter a little tighter all week.

Over the last year, I have seen countless numbers of kids struggling with gender and sexual identity. I’ve learned words I didn’t even know existed. Bi Gender, Pan Gender, Trans Gender, Trans Sexual, Pan Sexual, Omni Sexual, Bi Sexual, A Sexual- I don’t even remember talking about that kind of stuff when I was a teen. I know there were and are many reasons that this topic isn’t talked about, but why the pressure to be defined in one category at such a young age? I’ve seen countless girls victims of sexual assault or mental and physical abuse, that are now afraid of men, so they feel they must be different. The word “lesbian” isn’t used because of the stigma, but because of the fear, they struggle with thinking they must be different, and it’s not much different for boys.

I’ve met a young girl, so beautiful, that is almost 17, but has already had a heart attack at age 15 from being so thin, and tonight is fighting to get past a drug over dose. Her step dad can’t understand her struggles, so her mom kicked her out and sent her to her grandmas. She’s sad, confused and obviously hurting enough to repeatedly try and take her own life – and there’s so many more like her. I watched a young girl cry out of control at having to eat one pea on her plate. One….small……pea. The terror in her face was unreal, and the pain was so evident, and yet I couldn’t understand where those feelings came from.

We met a boy, gang raped by the foster kids in his house for being gay. What’s the big deal? He’s gay, so why shouldn’t he take it? His parents kicked him out when he was just 12, because they couldn’t take the fact that he didn’t feel like the boy they wanted him to be. Pushed from home to home, the feelings of self hate had him cutting so deep that he ended up bandaged with stiches all over. Button pusher? Yes. But the cries for attention were just so obvious, and when he asked me to take him home I almost cried.

Speechless yet? Feeling shocked? This is the world we live in. Kids don’t get the film we did in grade 5 about what happens when you get fuzz in your special spots, and that having a shower is important. Sex ed for 14 year olds talks about 50 shades of grey, and topics like fisting. Yup – that’s right – fisting. Or even more shocking – double fisting. Don’t know what that is? Find out – I bet you’ll be horrified. Maybe not all teachers are talking about it, but I guarantee you our kids are.

There is a bombardment on our kids of negative, provocative, depressing information. A constant onslaught is hitting them from every direction. When I was that age, the bullying stopped when I got off the bus after school, and didn’t start again till the next day when I got back on the bus. I went home, did chores, homework, helped with dinner, went to lessons, complained about practicing, went to church clubs – I was busy. If someone wanted to bully me, they had to call on the phone, which meant my dad would probably answer, and then the house would probably hear. It just didn’t happen. Yes, I was afraid to go back to school sometimes, but one of the worst bullies was a teacher so being around other kids wasn’t even always the problem.

The onslaught of constant information is 24/7. How do we make it stop? How do we take the pressure off, and change the environment so our kids have a fighting chance? How do we inspire our kids to feel that life is worth it? This is a serious question, and is going to take some serious thought. There have been anti bullying campaigns for ages and I’m not sure they really even work. If they did, would these things really happen? Would kids be taking their lives? Would there be waiting lists for programs with a lot of kids not having any hope of getting help?

When will this insanity stop? We can’t just continue on and not say or do anything. Not this time.

My family is reeling today. 3 tragic deaths in 3 weeks. The ripples of these tragedies go far. We need to do something different. Something has to change.

August 10, 2015 1

My Story

It was 4 months and 4 days after “The Event” that I started blogging. I’m pretty sure I started doing it, because I thought that by sharing, other parents going through the same thing might have a little head start on what they were going to experience. When I wrote my very first small blurb, I was pretty nervous, but it came out fairly quick and easy as it didn’t really have much meat in it. It wasn’t until I actually started writing the beginning of the the events that I really started to feel what was happening.

As I started writing that first piece, I started to cry. At points, I was crying so hard, I was typing by memory because I couldn’t see the screen. I felt almost feverish as I typed, banging out the words as I relived the terror, grief and fear of the different things I had experienced. Before I posted, I read the blog through, making sure I had not disclosed names, or anything else I thought might reveal sensitive identities or issues. I wanted to really make sure I was ok with what would be in print. I remember one day, reading my words back to myself, curled up in my bed, as the tears poured down my face for 2 straight hours. I was exhausted, weak, and felt broken, but what happened next was pretty surprising, and quite unexpected. I wasn’t upset anymore. I was done. No feeling, no more tears, no extreme fear – I was done. By being open with myself, and perhaps others I dealt with the trauma and it was gone.

About a month ago, my daughter and I decided to have a girls night. We made popcorn, got our favorite beverage ready along with some fresh fruit, and picked a movie to watch on tv. We usually pick our favorite essential oil to diffuse to add a beautiful atmosphere, and that night was no different. About 20 minutes in, both of us fell asleep. One and a half hours later, I woke up, and realizing what had happened, got her to bed and then followed suit quite quickly. The next morning, she came upstairs and asked how I slept. “Not well, I had really bad dreams.” “Me too. What were your dreams about?” “I dreamed about one of the escalations that happened at the hospital.” “No way!!! No way!!! Really? I did too, just my dream was my side of it.” We both dreamed about the same event, through the entire night. The amazing thing? Since then, that night is no longer frightening and I have a hard time even thinking about it. It’s gone. Done. Over. It’s no longer part of my life – just part of the story.

Over the last month, as my daughter has been digging deeper in to the issues that hurt and continue to haunt her, my own truths have been rising to the surface. Perhaps the topics and feelings are too reminiscent of my own, or perhaps its being in so many different counseling sessions, but I’m being forced to think about pieces of my past that I’m not comfortable re-living. I have learned that through merely writing my words in a blog, I can speak the past, and the pain disappears, but when faced with dealing with my own demons, I become weak, scared, and the anxiety overwhelms me. I’m a thankful person, and know I’m blessed in many ways, but there are also things I can’t ignore.

I was molested by a neighborhood girl when I was in elementary school. I was tormented as I grew up about my body by people I should have been able to trust, and I struggle every day with feelings of inadequacy – that my value as a person is based on what my body looks like. When I see these people as an adult, I’m still paralyzed as I was when I was a child. I was verbally abused by a teacher at school, and mentally over and over again in a bad relationship until all I could think of was letting go of the steering wheel and having it all be over. I don’t want to hear about laying it at God’s feet and He’ll just take it away. I don’t believe that – and I’ve never seen evidence of it. I don’t want to go to more counselors, because they just want to talk about my daughter. Talking to sympathetic people means hearing how I should just get over it, and empathetic people want to sit and feel bad together, which I’m not in to either. I don’t want to feel sorry for myself, and I certainly don’t want others to feel sorry for me either. How can I feel so strong most days, and still be struggling with the same things? I would really love, to JUST….BE….OVER IT. Absolutely….. all of it.

You can walk on splinters and get where you’re going, but you’re feet will still be infected. I’m strong, and I know I’ll get where I’m going, no matter what, but the splinters are festering, and the blisters are rising to the surface. I’m just not quite sure what it will take for me to heal.

August 1, 2015 0

Check-In’s

Part of any program, is a mandatory family meeting held usually every second week, with the counselor, or in this case, counselors involved with your child. Family can mean anything really, but on this journey, it’s just me and my daughter. Basically we go to a meeting, in a sound proof room. We strategically set up enough of the many chairs in the room that everyone has a seat in close proximity, but so that no one really has to look at anyone in the eye, except the main counselor or leader. You know that saying, “Never look a gorilla straight in the eye”? Well, there’s a reason for that. We’re given a topic ahead of time, so each person has time to think, and to try and avoid any big surprises – but there’s always a surprise. Typically I sit, look calm, try to stay comfortable and not look awkward, and keep my expressions neutral so not to reveal what I’m really thinking as I listen to the answers.

“So let’s start by asking the regular questions, are you ready?”

“Yup”.

“So. How’s your mood?”

“Same.”

“yup, seems pretty good to me. I’d agree”.

“And sleep. How’s that going for you. Are you sleeping ok?”

“Yup. Pretty much.”

“If she get’s to bed. Getting to bed is impossible”

“Ok. Thoughts about suicide?”

“About the same.”

“So…..3 or 4?”

“Nah, probably 4 or 5?”

“Wait, that’s not the same. Last time it was 3 or 4, not 4 or 5. Really?”

“Ok, how about your eating? Are you eating?”

“I’m trying. If I can get the food to my mouth, and actually in my mouth, I realize I’m kind of hungry, but I can’t handle the thought of food otherwise. Sometimes I actually feel sick, and then I force myself to eat something. I eat fruit. And I hold my breath while I eat other stuff.”

“Why do you hold your breath?”

“So I don’t have to think about it being in my mouth. I don’t want to taste it – it grosses me out.”

” I knew it! I knew it! One day after our spot at the eating disorder program expires. I knew it. I thought I noticed changes again……………i feel fat.”

“How about self harm? I know your mom knows you self-harmed last night.”

“Yup”

“And when did that happen?”

“During the night”

“And what did you use?”

“An old razor”

“Really? Where is she getting this stuff? That’s it – I’m searching the room. Next time she’s out. I’m going through every inch. She’s probably booby trapped everything…”

“Where did you get the razor? Did you wake up, see it and use it, or did you wake up and decide to self harm, so look for something to use?”

“I woke up and decided. I knew I had it in a junk drawer.”

“She doesn’t have a junk drawer. She re-cleans her room every week.”

“Can you tell your mom where you cut?”

“Always the same. Always on the legs.”

“NO! Why does she have to know?”

“She’s covering her chest. She carved her chest. She’s covering it while she answers the question. Dear God, this time it was her chest.”

“Ok. You don’t have to say. We just thought…..”

“No.”

“It’s hot in here. I need to take my shoes off. I wonder if they’d notice. I’m taking my shoes off. Be discreet. They’ll never know. I need water.”

No matter how many check in’s we have, for some reason, I always expect the answers to be the same as the ones in my head, and I’m always surprised on at least one of the answers when it’s not. I have gut instincts, but it’s gotten to the point where I’m so tired I don’t even know what is paranoia, and what I really need to step back and listen to. I’m constantly at war with myself and it’s exhausting.

For now? Trust the programming, keep communication channels open, stay close to the gorilla and watch carefully, and earn trust just a little at a time. At some point……well, we will get past this.

July 31, 2015 0

“Miss” – Communication

Last week I was supposed to be on holidays. I had 12 days I had to use up prior to the end of summer, so I booked a week off to go to the lake. I knew it might be a little complicated because my daughter has been so busy, but I was really looking forward to some down time, and maybe a little normalicy. I had arranged with her program that she could miss 2 days, and just said we’re headed out of town.

The first derailer was unavoidable. We had a family emergency, and my fiance had to head overseas, so I took all the kids. No problem. One more kid in the mix? I’ve done it before, I can do it again. Then we had the school reunion melt down night. After that whole incident, I decided that at least 1 day of program would be necessary to try and straighten things out. The problem came with 2 teens discussing suicide via text. Then one puts her phone away, the other freaks out, and the police are now involved. That was not the best moment and was definitely a very stressful start to the week. We could still potentially have almost 2 days away, and get my daughter back to her job on Friday and Saturday. The next issue came with more appointments, taking up the other days of the week. Oh well. That’s kind of how it works – not going to sweat it.

Thursday came, and my daughter was supposed to be at program. Fairly early, she came up the stairs and said she didn’t have to go. She had texted a counselor and said she was tired, and they said she didn’t have to be there. We were supposed to be on vacation anyways, and I had numerous other appointments, so I was a bit relieved. There was a little voice inside of me saying check the phone, but I dismissed it and went on with the day.

The week passed, and Monday came with work, appointments, cleaning, laundry and all the other fun that goes with a busy family. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I go to work at 6 am, leave at 915 to get her to her program, head back to work, go back to pick her up at about 4, and then back to work to finish off what I missed and put in my time during the day. As I drove to the program, I received a text asking me to come in and touch base when I dropped her off. Sure – I could do that.

“Did you think it was ok for your daughter to miss Thursday?”

“She said the other counselor said it was ok.”

“No, it wasn’t ok and that’s not what he said.”

“I’m sorry – I’ll take responsibility. I didn’t check her phone and just took her word for it. I should have checked.”

“Everyone was asking where she was. It’s not ok to miss as this is part of her therapy.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I should have checked. I did kind of wonder, but we were supposed to be on holidays anyways, and I had a crazy day so I just took her word for it. It won’t happen again.”

“On Thursday we’d like to have a family counseling session and talk about communication. There seems to be a lot of problems with that lately.”

“Yes, I think that would be a good idea. There are things I’d like to discuss around that as well.”

“Ok, Thursday at 4?”

“Sure. Thursday at 4.”

That conversation bugged me the rest of the day. I want to trust my daughter, I really do, but this was putting me in the position of a major trust breach and feeling that she lied to get her way.

“How was your day?”

“Good.”

“How was your testing today?”

“Long. I have a headache.”

“We have a family session on Tuesday.”

“I know – about my “mis-communication. I’m sure I have the text mom. I swear they said I could miss. I don’t understand why I’m in trouble. I swear they said yes.”

“Can I see the text?”

“I’ll read it to you.”

She proceeded to read a conversation to me between herself and a counselor, who had said he preferred she come to program that day, and it’s part of her treatment, but if she felt she needed to rest he was in approval and “by all means you should stay home and rest prior to work tomorrow.” That sounds to me like they said it was ok for her to stay home. We took a screenshot of the conversation, and I sent it to the other therapist. I wanted her to see it prior to our counseling session.

Part of me is relieved. Part of me is saying “whewf. She didn’t lie.” Part of me is saying, “you should have checked the phone! You felt it in your gut, why are you still ignoring that?”. And then a large part of me says, “Here we go again. I can’t believe this. A counselor threw her under the bus, and now we get to have a counseling session and discuss a text. Are the counselors telling each other stories? Why can’t we get this right?”

When we came in to the program, they told us the door was always open in an emergency. An emergency happened, and we were turned away. Bad communication? On who’s part?

We were told go ahead and send a text to reach us. The text was sent, an answer given, and now we’ve been called in. Bad communication again? Our fault?

4 tomorrow. Here we go again.

July 30, 2015 0

John Henry

Forms. Piles and piles of forms. With every program we’ve been through so far, there have been forms, to agree to sign other forms. Forms for release of information. Forms for obtaining information. Forms for medical tests, and forms for the results. Forms for classes, forms for communicating, forms for staying, forms for going…really no end of forms. During an intake to any program, you spend approximately 1 hour at the beginning signing forms, and then usually get presented with many others along the way.

Perhaps it’s my real estate back ground, perhaps it’s having run my own business, or perhaps it’s the fact that I may have trust issues, but when I’m presented with a form, I will read it in full before I put my name on it. I’m pretty sure many people just accept those forms as is, and never really read through, because they’re always shocked when I read. I don’t feel pressure, and I don’t rush, I read thoroughly before I go ahead.

One of the forms I’ve signed, and I’m sure many other parents do, is a sex ed form. Now in every school, there is a sex ed class that they teach that requires approval. The form is pretty generic, and they say some content such as safe sex, STD’s, and basic topics like that. When I was in grade 4, the school nurse gathered all the girls together, and talked to us about getting our monthly. The book, “Are you there God, It’s Me , Margaret” had just been released, and everyone was reading it. We were trying to approach our parents, saying “it” had arrived, and they had no clue what we were talking about. The nurse went in to detail, we were thoroughly grossed out, and very glad when it was all over. In grade 5, the boys and girls had to sit in the same room and watch “the film”. It talked about zits, showering, how boys like girls, and girls like boys, and puberty, and all the gross stuff included in the topic. I remember we were all embarrassed and giggled when the nurse talked about it at the end of the class. We couldn’t wait to be out of there.

As I said, I read and signed a sex ed form for one of the programs my daughter was recently in. It didn’t say anything out of the ordinary, and I knew she was one of the youngest there, but I was not prepared for the conversation that followed.

“We talked about all the stuff from 50 shades of grey and that kind of thing.”

“Oh, really? And how did you feel about that?”

“Well, they described why S&M and all that stuff is dangerous. That no means no.”

“Ok, well, that’s good. Anything you have questions about?”

“No. We had a chance to ask questions, and were all really embarrassed, so, like one of the guys, who’s really good with accents and stuff, read the questions like this….(English accent) teacher, when you fist…)

“When you what?”

“You know, fist. Don’t you know what that is?”

“No?! What is it?”

The description came and I slammed on my brakes. My car came to a screeching halt in the middle of a residential street, and my head thrust forward and almost hit my steering wheel. I couldn’t believe my ears! And double fisting? That’s really possible? My jaw was literally hanging open, eyes wide, in complete utter shock.

“What?! Are you kidding me? That’s what you’re discussing? That’s what I said yes to? I can’t even believe that’s possible?! What the heck?!!”

Now I might be a little old fashioned, but really? Is that necessary? I’d just like to thank El James for opening up a pile of garbage that we now get to explain to our kids. This is what we get to compare real life to. Our kids don’t come home and ask about “it”. They get to come home and think about being bound and gagged, or beaten, and wonder if that’s normal.

Had I known that those were the topics my child would be exposed to, I would have thought long and hard, and definitely asked more questions, before signing that form. It’s not that I’m opposed to knowledge, but do we really have to know everything? I really don’t think so. My life was perfectly fine without ever knowing the terms I’ve learned.

I don’t think everything has to be defined. I don’t think all knowledge has to be known by all. I don’t have to experience everything to know my life is great as it is. I can really take my own experience and standards and filter how far I want to go. I have a choice – it’s called free will – the ability to choose and say yes or no. I also have a little life experience that allows me to sit in a room and know when things are going to far, or when the content I’m being exposed to is getting to be too much. When our kids sit in a classroom and are taught, they are expected to stay, listen and learn. They become victims of the opinions and potential values of the person at the head of the class. I am not against learning, but do they have to know everything all at once?

July 27, 2015 0

Hospital Hangover

“Don’t worry, we won’t forget about you. You can sit in the room on the left.”

Probably the most frustrating words you can hear, as you look at the wait time on the clock. 1:54. Really? It’s after midnight, and I have to wait 1 hour and 54 minutes to see a Dr. I hate the hospital. Hard plastic chairs. Cold, white walls. Harsh, florescent lighting. ” I can’t even believe I’m here again, let alone waiting – yet again.”

I had been at my high school reunion on the opposite side of the city, meeting with people I hadn’t seen in 30 years. The night was supposed to be great. My daughter had arranged a sleepover with her dad – probably not my first choice but still safe and dependable. Having her taken care of meant that I could let my hair down a little, and maybe even have a drink. My fiance and I made the trek across town, and joined in the celebration. He was the DD, so I decided one drink would be ok. I sat with old friends, and had a chance to laugh a little, and have some fun.

Truthfully, it was all really overwhelming. I found myself at one point, with my back literally against the wall, breathing hard and wishing I could be alone. The people, the noise – not something I was used to, however, I managed to distract myself and have some fun. We decided to leave a little early, and no sooner do we get to the car……..

“Mom, my friend called the cops on me again. I don’t know what to do.”

“What? Why? Why would she do that? Phone her and tell her to call them back.”

Electronic devices and social media are probably one of the most dangerous tools our kids have today. They do not have the capability to stop and think prior to posting, and consequence just doesn’t cross their mind. When I was 14, my dad gave me a dime in my pocket, and always let me know that I could call him and he’d be wherever I needed him in the moment. No matter what. I knew, that if I was in trouble, I could reach out to him, and he’d be there. Nowadays, kids have anyone they want to talk to at their fingertips, and unfortunately, misery loves company. “Let’s all get in the same boat together, and talk about how we’re going to drown.” Yeah, that’s a really good plan. Makes perfect sense. Don’t bother reaching out to someone who can actually help, but instead, talk to someone who is also going through difficult times, and hope they don’t freak out when I don’t respond to their text right away. Yup. That’s a great plan – let’s do it!

I quickly texted my son as a warning, but it was too late. My phone was already ringing, and there I was in a conversation with my son and the RCMP. Now the City police were involved, and they were on their way to her at her dads house. This was definitely not good. I knew at this point things weren’t going to be good. My phone rang again.

“Mom, please, please come get me. I want to go home. I don’t want to be here. Please, please can you come get me? I can’t stay, please. Please come get me.”

We started the drive to her dad’s house. By this time it was almost midnight, and I couldn’t imagine what kind of scene was playing out. To make matters worse, the anger that was coming towards me in the situation was awful, and only making things worse. We got to her dad’s, and couldn’t leave because the police hadn’t arrived yet. I had 2 choices – stay in an ugly, escalating situation, or call the police and tell them I was taking her to the hospital to be assessed. So, off to the hospital we went.

1:54 wait time. Really?! I hate the hospital. I don’t even wait to get in to an assessment room anymore. My purse makes a perfect pillow, and at that time of night it’s easy to find a few germ infested seats in a row that can make a portable bed. I’ve grown accustomed to falling asleep in uncomfortable spots – actually almost easier than falling asleep in my own bed. The hardest part is the crinked neck and the massive headache that follows the next day.

I know the drill well. Wait in the waiting room. Wait in the assessment room. Wait again for a second opinion. An awful lot of waiting. “I don’t even know why we’re here,” I thought to myself. “I know how to deal with this. She needs sleep. She needs quiet. I need sleep!
She needs her own bed, and a decent talk on a help line.” The Dr.’s tried to assess her, but her regular regimen of sleeping pills had kicked in, and talking to her was like trying to rouse a passed out drunk – just not possible till they sleep it off. After a lot of talking, they were convinced we could go home, but gave us the option of staying the night. When I was offered the place to stay, I quickly declined. There was no way I could go back to that first admission night. We would have to stay in the same room again, under watch of security guards – and I just couldn’t go back. “That’s fine – I do believe she’s safe. I think the situation got blown out of proportion.” Time to go home.

4 am. I am so tired. We walk outside and wait to be picked up. The glowing lights outside no longer bring me comfort. Seeing the parkade just brings back memories of crying in my car until I had no tears left. The whole atmosphere gives me flash backs, and no longer represents help and safety, rather stress and trauma. I just want to go home.

July 20, 2015 0

routerecalculation

mental health blog

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